


The Other Side

by PsychGirl (snycock)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drama, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Inspired by Twitter, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Parentlock, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 12:48:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13054311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snycock/pseuds/PsychGirl
Summary: The fallout from their last case gives Sherlock a new point of view.





	The Other Side

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is inspired by events in the Twitterverse, which chronicles the ongoing adventures of Sherlock (@contactSH) and John (@contactJHW). In this universe most of season 4 (including The Final Problem) never happened. Johnlock is canon, Redbeard is a dog, Victor Trevor is Sherlock’s boyfriend from university, and Sherlock doesn’t have a sister. 
> 
> The inspiration came from a case in which John and Sherlock went to a Halloween party in early November 2017 and a murder occurred. The murderer used a poison that she put in the fire at the party; Sherlock felt compelled to test it on himself (ACD fans among you will recognize The Adventure of the Devil’s Foot) and John found him in the flat, nearly dead. This fic is what I imagined might happen after that.
> 
> The title comes from the lyrics of “The Other Side” by Ruelle:
> 
> _I don’t want to know what it’s like to live without you_   
>  _Don’t want to know the other side of a world without you_
> 
> Thank you to tellywhich for all your support and for the excellent beta!

“John.”

John stops in the foyer. His face is turned away, but Sherlock can see his reflection in the mirror on the wall. His expression is flat. He didn’t talk to or even look at Sherlock once during the cab ride back to Baker Street. 

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says. He’s said it a half a dozen times already since he came to in the flat; more if you include Twitter. 

“I know,” John says. 

“I’m an idiot, I wasn’t thinking,” he repeats. More of what he’s already said, several times already.

“I know.” 

“I don’t… I don’t know what else to say.” There’s a tightness at the back of his throat.

John’s gaze shifts to the floor. “I need to go get Rosie, Sherlock.”

“Of course.” 

He hangs his coat up and climbs the stairs as John knocks softly on Mrs. Hudson’s door. He can hear John’s voice, and then hers, but too low to make out what they’re saying. He goes into their bedroom, hangs up his suit jacket, and puts on his blue dressing gown. There’s a heavy feeling in his stomach, like he’s swallowed a lead ball. His blue gown is John’s favorite, and he thinks he might need the help.

When he comes back into the kitchen, he can hear John upstairs, talking to Rosie. His voice is warm and animated, and it sends a pang through Sherlock’s chest. 

He heads into the sitting room. The flat is chilly and he reaches to turn the fire on. But he freezes before his hand reaches the knob, the memory of the last time he did this suddenly overwhelming.

All the signs had pointed to _radix pedis diaboli_ , but he couldn’t be sure without testing it. It had seemed like such a small amount, hardly enough to cause any problems. And he hated that feeling of not knowing. 

He hadn’t expected it to affect him that strongly. 

Within moments of him throwing it on the gas fire, the atmosphere in the room had become thick and cloying. Heart pounding, hands shaking, he’d turned to the windows, to raise the pane and clear the air, but there seemed to be something black and malevolent between him and them. Faces – John, his brother, Molly, Mrs. Hudson – gaunt and diseased. A sound filled his ears, like a thousand voices howling. He couldn’t breathe. The hair rose on his arms and the back of his neck. It seemed he could hear the step of something on the stair, something awful and terrifying, coming closer. The skin across his arms prickled and he turned to face the apparition, clouded in black smoke, with eyes like coals and teeth like knives.

He must have passed out, because the next thing he knew, he was lying flat on his back on the floor. John’s face had hovered above his, as white as chalk, his eyes wide in terror.

“Sherlock!” John’s voice had been raw. His hands, warm and dry, had flitted around Sherlock’s head, feeling his forehead, then his cheek, then pressing lightly against the carotid artery in his neck. 

The poison is completely gone now, and even knowing that, his hand shakes as he turns on the gas fire. 

John comes downstairs, carrying Rosie on one hip, bath supplies in the other hand, and heads into the bathroom without saying a word to Sherlock. 

John had told him, later, at the hospital, what it had been like. He’d smelled it, a thick, musky odor, as he reached the first landing. Coming into the sitting area, he’d seen Sherlock lying on the ground, looking like a corpse – pale as death, eyes fixed open. He’d known at once what Sherlock had done and rushed to his side. He couldn’t detect a pulse in his wrist, so he sought it at his neck, but his fingers were shaking too badly to detect anything. His head was spinning from the heavy miasma so he staggered to the windows, nearly losing consciousness on the way there, and managed to wrest them both open. After a moment of hanging his head outside, sucking in clean air, he was able to get the fan on the bookshelf going and start to clear the room. He’d made his way back to Sherlock’s side, terrified that he was too late, but to his relief, now, he could feel a weak thready pulse under his fingers. 

Sherlock hears the water shut off, and then splashing as John gives Rosie her bath. Rosie babbles, a high, bright sound. 

Sherlock stands, feeling restless. He doesn’t know what to do. He walks over to his violin case and runs his hands over it. A part of him wants to play but he’s not sure if he’s ready yet. 

Tea. He’ll make tea. That always helps.

The bathroom door opens as he’s gathering the things and a cloud of lavender-scented steam rolls out. He glimpses Rosie out of the corner of his eye, clad in a bright yellow onesie, laughing as John carries her upstairs. 

The water in the kettle is boiling when John comes back downstairs. He pours water into the two mugs and puts them on the kitchen table with the milk jug and the sugar bowl. “Tea?” he says to John.

“Not for me. Think I’m going to bed. It’s been a long day.”

The lead ball in his stomach doubles in volume. “John, I—” He stops, the apology dying on his lips. He’s said it so many times today. It doesn’t seem to be making any difference. “I don’t know what else you want me to say.”

John exhales and rubs his thumb across his forehead, slumps into a seat at the kitchen table. “I don’t think there’s anything else you can say,” he replies quietly. 

“We caught a killer today, John.”

“I know.”

“If I hadn’t—”

“No.” John’s voice is suddenly thrumming with energy, his eyes glaring heat at Sherlock. “You didn’t need that to find her. You knew it was a poison, you knew how she had delivered it, you knew the effect it had. Lestrade offered you the Met’s testing resources. You didn’t need to test it out yourself.”

“We were able to draw her out—”

“We could have done that without actually endangering you. We had a plan.”

He can’t say anything, because John is right. Drawing the killer out hinged on John’s acting ability on Twitter, not any actual threat to his health. 

“Did you even think about how Rosie would react?”

“She and Mrs. Hudson were out, I made sure of that,” he replies, indignantly. 

“That’s not what I mean.” 

He looks at John, confused. 

“Did you even think about how your absence would affect her?”

“She’s an infant, John. I’m barely a solid construct in her mind.”

John shakes his head. “That’s not true at all. She knows you, Sherlock, you’re someone to her.”

He can’t think of anything to say to that.

“And she’s not going to be an infant forever. What about when she’s a toddler? Or a teenager? And you’re still risking your life to prove you’re clever? What if she’s the one that comes home to find you?”

John’s voice is shaking, and Sherlock still doesn’t know what to say, because he hasn’t ever thought about Rosie like that. As a person. He knows she’s alive, obviously. He enjoys watching her interact with her environment, watching her learn. And watching John play with her… sometimes he can’t decide who he wants to watch more, her or John. 

But he hasn’t ever really thought of her as being an actual walking, talking person, with her own thoughts and ideas. Hasn’t ever imagined her sitting at the kitchen table, doing her homework. Hasn’t imagined her rolling her eyes when he and John cuddle on the couch, or giving him a kiss on the cheek as she goes upstairs to bed. 

Hasn’t imagined that he might have a place in her life, too. 

“I… I just… I needed to _know_. Wanted to know,” he whispers. 

John sighs heavily, his head dropping. “I _know_ ,” he says. 

The silence between them expands, filling the space in the tiny kitchen. Sherlock wonders if this is the beginning of the end, the point at which he’s ruined everything beyond repair, the start of uncomfortable pauses and careful avoidance that eventually grows, just like this silence, into detachment and distance. He wants to say something, anything, to keep that from happening, beg John to understand, but his throat is dry and everything he could say gets stuck. 

John sighs again, rubs a hand down his face. “I know,” he says again. “It’s part of what I love about you, your insatiable curiosity, but—” His voice cracks and he stops and swallows, takes a deep breath. “I just don’t know how many more times I can watch you die.”

Sherlock feels like his heart is being crushed in a vise. He opens his mouth, because he can’t let that go by without saying something, but nothing comes out. He doesn’t know what to say. _I’msorryI’msorryI’msorryI’msorry_ rings through his head but he’s said it so many times already and he doesn’t know how to say it so it will mean something, so it will tell John that John is his life and his heart and his soul and his whole world, and losing him would be the end of everything. He doesn’t know how to say it so John will hear, past so many times of saying “I’m sorry” and “I’m an idiot” and “I won’t do it again, I promise.” 

John pushes himself to his feet slowly. “I’m going to bed,” he says, and the utter exhaustion in his voice makes something prickle at the back of Sherlock’s eyes. 

He leaves. Sherlock clutches his mug of tea, now lukewarm, and walks into the sitting room.

And it’s like a vision, the way it hits him, right as he’s standing between the kitchen and the sitting room. The room smoky and hazy with noxious fumes, John stretched out on his back, eyes wide open, pupils blown and fixed, grimacing, fingers half-clenched in rictus, skin white and waxy. 

This is what John saw.

And even though it’s not real, Sherlock can feel panic clawing up his spine, his heart battering against his ribs like a bird trapped in a cage. Can see himself bursting in from the hallway, dropping to his knees at John’s side, searching for a pulse. Feels himself coughing, growing dizzy, stumbling to the window and shoving the sash up, then the other one, flipping the fan on, the fear pulsing through him with every beat of his heart. Too late. Too late. Too late.

The mug drops from his numb, shaking fingers, thunks hard onto the carpet, spilling tea everywhere. 

He draws in a shuddering breath. 

It’s not like he doesn’t comprehend John’s reaction. He knows he can be reckless with his own safety. He understands why John gets so mad at him, can look back on it and think, _yeah, that was a bit not good, there_. He remembers what happened when, in a fit of boredom and pique, he put an unloaded gun to his head and ranted about shooting himself.

He’s never understood it like this. 

He’s still shaking, even after he mops up the spilled tea and rinses the mug out. He stands in the kitchen, unexpectedly irresolute about what to do next. Anxiety still thrums along his veins, making him jittery. And there’s something else, something wholly unfamiliar: shame.

_If I knew this was how it would make him feel_ , he thinks, _I wouldn’t have done it_.

_But you did know_ , another part of him says. _You saw. You saw, but you did not observe_. 

His throat tightens, guilt washing through him. It’s true. He read the signs, has always been able to read John like a book. He just didn’t know, until today, what it felt like for John. 

Without thinking about it too much, he spins and heads for his bedroom.

He wants to confess to John, share his epiphany, but John is lying in bed, on his back, covers pulled up, eyes closed, and Sherlock doesn’t know how to break the silence. He changes into his sleepwear, pyjama pants and his old grey t-shirt, hoping that John will say something.

He lays down on his side, hoping that John will make some comment about the irregularity of him coming to bed, something, anything that will give him an opening to mention his new-found understanding. 

But John doesn’t say anything. He turns to his side, back to Sherlock, and doesn’t say a word. 

_I just don’t know how many more times I can watch you die_.

Sherlock swallows, his throat tight, and blinks furiously. Words crowd his head and his throat, but they’re all variants on the unsatisfactory “I’m sorry” and he can’t say any of them. 

He can hear the tick of John’s watch on his bedside table as it counts the minutes away. 

John’s not asleep, he knows from his breathing. It’s light and shallow, not the deep, slow breaths John usually takes in sleep. But he doesn’t say anything, and neither does Sherlock.

The watch ticks. The darkness outside their bedroom window slowly lightens through paler and paler shades of grey as dawn inches closer. 

Sherlock dozes off at some point, because he dreams. He’s walking in Regent’s Park with John. It’s early spring, the buds of the cherry trees are just beginning to burst open, and there’s a warm dampness to the air that smells of freshly overturned earth. It’s been raining, but now the clouds are breaking and the sun is coming out.

He hears a giggle, and looks down. There’s a child holding his hand, a girl, blonde, dressed in a blue slicker with matching blue wellies. She looks up at him, smiling, love and adoration in her dark blue eyes, eyes that are exactly like her father’s. 

Rosie. 

Love and protectiveness washes through him, fierce and strong. Familiar and so similar to what he feels for her father, but different as well. Connected but distinct, its own thing. 

He looks over at John who is also smiling at him, eyes crinkled, happier than Sherlock has ever seen him before. And something is happening in his chest, something he didn’t think was possible. Matter can neither be created nor destroyed, that’s a fundamental law of science. And yet, somehow, although he’d thought that his heart was filled with John, that space is expanding, and now there’s room for two. 

The dream shifts, as dreams do, without rhyme or reason, and now he’s sitting at the kitchen table, Rosie on his lap. There’s a sheet of paper in front of him, with math problems written on it, and he’s taking Rosie through the multiplication tables, patiently. She feels heavy and solid against his chest, wriggling on his leg, lightly kicking his shin as she swings her legs back and forth. He knows she’s getting to be too big to sit like this but neither of them wants to give it up. Her hand is hot where it clutches his forearm, and slightly sticky with jam. She gasps, suddenly, eyes going wide with understanding, as she grasps the lesson, as a piece of the puzzle slots into place, and he feels a warm, gentle pride pressing behind his sternum as he ruffles her hair and tells her _that’s my girl!_

Another shift, and now they’re outside, in a cemetery. It can’t be more than a few months later. It’s raining. They’re graveside, an elegant dark wood coffin resting on the rails, everyone in black, with black umbrellas bobbing above them like birds on the wing. John is pale and drawn but calm, but Rosie is not. Tears are streaming down her cheeks and her breath is hitching as she tries not to sob, her lips quivering. His heart aches. She’s too young for this, too young to be wearing mourner’s clothes, to be experiencing this kind of grief in her life. He reaches out for her, wanting to comfort her, but he can’t touch her. He doesn’t seem to be there. A chill shivers down his spine.

Oh.

The black granite headstone is suddenly familiar. He doesn’t need to see the letters engraved on it to know what’s going on. Odd to have the headstone completed before the funeral. But then, it had been completed years ago, hadn’t it?

This is his funeral.

The coffin is being lowered into the ground, and Rosie bursts out in a wail, sobbing, her fists clenched and her eyes scrunched tight and her face turning red. The other mourners look away, unable to bear the sight of her grief, but John crouches down and pulls her in close, murmuring soothing noises into her ear, rubbing his hand up and down her back. Now that Rosie’s pressed against his shoulder and can’t see him, the grief that sweeps over his face mirrors hers and steals the breath from Sherlock’s lungs.

He wakes, gasping, lurching to sit up, and the pain in his chest is so sharp and intense that, for a moment, he thinks that it was all a dream. Going to Appledore, shooting Magnussen, the goodbye on the tarmac, Mary’s death, John coming back to 221B, the anniversary of their first meeting seven years ago, a bottle of wine, John’s mouth on his, fumbling their way back to his bedroom – a dream, all of it. It hurts so much that he yanks his shirt up to make sure that there’s not a bandage across his chest.

Relief drenches him when he sees the shiny puckered scar, light pink against his pale abdomen. He sucks in a breath, releases it slowly, then a second time, trying to slow his hammering heart. He rubs his fist over his sternum, trying to ease the tight clench of muscles there, and runs his hand over his face. His skin is cool and his sweat has dried, leaving him feeling clammy and sticky. 

He looks over, but John’s side of the bed is empty, the covers drawn up neatly. His heart sinks, but then he hears the rattle of dishware from the kitchen. The fragments of his dream cling to him like smoke, and his heart leaps. He jumps out of bed, throwing on his blue dressing gown, and heads for the kitchen.

But it’s not John, it’s Mrs. Hudson, although she does have some infant in the high chair and is getting ready to feed her some strained banana. For a moment he doesn’t recognize Rosie – he was expecting to see her as an eight-year-old, like in his dream, and he can’t reconcile the actual image with the dream image of her for a moment. He shakes his head, dissipating the last vestiges of the dream from his mind. 

“You haven’t got any milk in,” Mrs. Hudson says, puttering around the kitchen, “but as soon as I feed Rosie I can pop off to the shops and get some.”

“I’ll do it,” he says.

Mrs. Hudson gives him a look like he just offered to hoover for her, and he nearly rolls his eyes, but stops himself at the last minute. He knows what the look is about. He’s taken care of Rosie before, but usually only when John specifically asks him to. He doesn’t often volunteer to take care of her. 

But things are different now. 

He flicks the kettle on, scoops some coffee from the tin into the coffee press, and holds his hand out for the jar of banana. “I said I’ll do it, I’ll feed her.”

She hesitates for only a moment, then puts the jar and spoon in his hand and starts untying her apron. “I’ll get you some bread, too, you’re nearly out, and some of that raspberry jam that John likes….”

He listens to her talking to herself as she heads down the stairs. The kettle clicks off. He pours the boiling water into the grounds and balances the press on top, leaving it to steep for a while. He scoops out some banana and points it at Rosie, who obligingly opens her mouth for it. 

He feeds her a few spoonfuls, then puts the jar and the spoon on her tray and goes to finish making the coffee. He pours himself a cup and is stirring the sugar in when he hears something go splat. He turns. Rosie has managed to grab the spoon and is banging it on the tray, flinging banana everywhere, including on the refrigerator and in her hair. 

“We’ve covered this already, haven’t we?” he asks her. “If you want to keep something, you can’t be throwing it everywhere.”

Rosie grins up at him, and even though he knows it’s likely just her having gas, that she’s too young to have absorbed any social graces, a warmth flows through him that has nothing to do with drinking hot coffee. 

He feeds her her breakfast, stealing sips of his coffee while she gums her banana contentedly, and slowly feels himself settling back into his life. 

When she’s done, he wipes off her hands and face, including the banana in her hair, puts the dishes in the sink, and picks her up, resting her on his hip. She looks at him, her dark blue eyes looking old and young simultaneously. She reaches out and grasps a lock of his hair in one hand. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, and it sounds better to him now, maybe because he’s never said it to her before. Now he can say it, and mean it. “I… I didn’t know, before. But I do now. I understand. I’ve observed.”

She stares at him, her brows drawn as if she’s trying to make sense of what he’s said. Then her face splits in an enormous grin, her eyes crinkling shut as she shrieks in laughter. 

He can’t help but smile in response, even though he wasn’t trying to be funny. His smile fades a moment later. It’s one thing to make amends to Rosie. John will be a different matter. Strained bananas and an apology are not going to be enough to fix that situation. 

There’s the beginnings of an idea in his mind, but he needs to flesh it out. In the meantime…

“All right, then, Rosie, it’s never too early to start on your multiplication tables. One times one is one. One times two is two. One times three….”

***

He’s pounding the cutlets when John gets home from work, and so he doesn’t hear him until John is in the doorway to the kitchen, saying “What the hell?” 

Sherlock, startled, turns, mallet in one hand. “Um… dinner?” Rosie is back in her high chair, because it’s easier for Sherlock to keep an eye on her there. She’s been banging her stuffed bee on her tray along with him and is keeping on with it now. 

John looks from him to Rosie a few times, blinking. A tentative smile curls one corner of his mouth, and he comes around the table to stand next to Sherlock, looking at the array of ingredients spread out on the countertop. “This looks good.” He slides an arm around Sherlock’s waist.

Sherlock swallows in relief. Any other time he would count this as an indication from John that the argument is over and things are back to normal. Which may be true for John, but it’s not, yet, for him. “Chicken piccata,” he replies, and angles his head down to kiss John lightly. 

“Where did you learn that?”

“From my grandmother.”

John’s eyebrows raise at that – he knows how much Sherlock treasures memories of his grandmother – but all he says is, “Do I have time to take a shower?”

“Of course,” he replies. “I won’t start cooking until you’re out.”

John squeezes his waist and then heads for the bathroom, but stops just before the door. “About last night,” he says, turning.

But Sherlock interrupts. “Can we talk about this later, after dinner?” he asks. He has a plan, and as much as he loves John, he’s not going to let him derail it. 

John hesitates, the urge to press the issue, to set things right, as plain as day on his face. But he doesn’t say anything, just takes a deep breath. “Sure.” He glances at Rosie again, and back at Sherlock, then down at the floor. Then with a sniff, he heads off for the bathroom. 

Sherlock prepares the cutlets and makes sure he has everything ready for the sauce while listening to the rhythmic sursurrus of the shower and the familiar sounds of John bumping around the bathroom. Rosie pounds her bee on her tray, delighted with the new activity she’s discovered. 

John comes back into the kitchen, dressed in an old pair of jeans and his striped shirt, hair damp, smelling of sandalwood and cedar. “Can I help?” he asks.

Sherlock pours him a glass of wine from the bottle he’s opened for the sauce and makes a shooing motion with one hand towards the sitting room. “You can take your daughter in there and entertain her while I cook. It won’t take me long, but I need to concentrate.”

John gives him a look, but says nothing, scooping Rosie out of her chair and balancing her on one hip, then picking up his wineglass and heading into the other room. “Tell Daddy what you’ve been doing all day, sweetheart,” he says as they leave the kitchen.

Sherlock smiles to himself and then turns his attention to his cooking. The recipe isn’t difficult, but the cutlets require attention so they don’t become dry, and the sauce comes together quickly. He cooks, listening to John’s voice rise and fall in the other room, punctuated by gleeful shrieks and outbursts of babbling from Rosie. 

After about thirty minutes, the sauce is done and dinner is served. He calls to John, who brings Rosie in, and they eat, John plying Rosie with spoonfuls of pureed chicken and peas and carrots between bites of piccata. 

Finally, John crosses his knife and fork on his plate and leans back in his seat, sighing. He raises his glass of wine and looks at Sherlock. “That was… fantastic, Sherlock. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He can feel the warmth rise in his cheeks at the compliment. He rises and gathers up the plates.

John gets up and takes them out of his hand. “No, let me.” Sherlock opens his mouth to argue, but John just shakes his head. “I insist. That was a spectacular meal. The least I can do is clean up.” He puts the plates in the sink, then grabs Sherlock’s glass and pours him some more wine. “Your turn to entertain Rosie.”

He carries Rosie into the sitting room, but he’s too nervous, now that the time has come, to sit and play with her. Instead he braces her on one hip and paces around the room, humming to her under his breath and rehearsing what he wants to say over and over in his head.

John comes out, finally, his own glass of wine in his hand. He smiles at Sherlock, but the smile wavers a little when he sees him pacing. “Look,” he starts again. “I want to—”

“Wait.” Sherlock puts Rosie in her playpen, handing her her bee, then takes John’s hand and pulls him towards his chair. “Sit, please.” 

John obliges, a faint furrow between his brows. 

Sherlock perches in his own chair, elbows on his knees, and takes a deep breath. “I have something to say, first.” 

John’s frown deepens, but he puts his wineglass on the side table and sits forward, his hands clenched between his knees, his eyes on Sherlock. 

“John, I… I—” His throat is tight and it’s hard to get the words out. “I made a vow to you, and to Ma—to Rosie, and….” His brain feels sluggish, all his practiced words deserting him. “I made a vow to you, to always be there, for… for both of you, and I—I haven’t been doing that.”

“Sherlock,” John says, but he holds his hand up to stop him. He has to get through this.

“What you said last night, you were right. I’ve been reckless with my own safety. I haven’t remembered the vow I made to you. In fact, I’ve broken it. I can’t promise to always be there for you and Rosie and then take chances like I took yesterday.”

John opens his mouth as if to say something, but then closes it again. He looks at Sherlock, his eyes sad, and Sherlock knows he’s thinking of that night. His wedding night. The night when Sherlock made that vow. 

The memory of that night still aches for Sherlock, even though everything has changed. He’d made it to the three of them, John and Mary and Rosie, who was just a bundle of cells at that point, but Sherlock had known she was there, known before John or Mary. And he’d promised to be there for all three of them.

“As much as I appreciate the sentiment,” John says, “I don’t think you can make that kind of promise, Sherlock.”

“I can, and I will.”

“It didn’t work for….”

John doesn’t speak her name, but it’s true. He wasn’t able to be there for Mary, despite his vow. But that’s a matter for another day, when the scars have healed more. “You were right, what you said… before.”

John cocks his head questioningly.

“After the… thing with the gun, when we talked – you said I don’t think about you.”

“Sherlock, I—”

“No, you were right.” John raises an eyebrow at him, but doesn’t say anything, and this gives Sherlock the courage to continue. “I haven’t been thinking about you, or Rosie, at those moments. I didn’t when I tested the poison. I just wanted to know. I didn’t think about anything else.”

John looks at him, brow furrowed, but doesn’t say anything.

“I didn’t think about what might happen if things went wrong,” he continues. “I didn’t look at it from your point of view, of how it would be for you to come home and find me. Or how it might affect other people – Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly… Rosie. I couldn’t.”

“And now you can.”

“Yes.”

John reaches out and takes his hand between his own, rubs his thumb gently across Sherlock’s palm. “That’s all I ever wanted. For you to think about the potential consequences of something before you jump in. Not that I don’t love your tendency to jump in feet first, but…” He looks up at Sherlock and smiles crookedly at him. “I want you around for a long, long, time.”

He curls his fingers around John’s. “I want that, too. But I need something to remind me of that, especially when there’s a case on.” He reaches back and takes a small box off his side table, disengages his hand from John’s so he can open it. Lying inside is a plain wide gold band.

John looks at him quizzically, one corner of his mouth upturned.

“This is my grandfather’s ring,” he says. “My grandmother bequeathed it to me, along with her violin – I don’t know why. She wore it on a chain around her neck after my grandfather died – I was very young when that happened, I hardly remember him.”

“She must have loved him very much,” John says.

Sherlock nodded. “She said he was her best friend. And that, whenever she looked at his ring, she would think about him. It was particularly helpful when she was trying to figure out what to do. She would look at the ring and think about what his advice would have been.” 

He looks at John, who looks back at him, his expression open and patient.

His heart swells, because he doesn’t deserve this man. John may get mad at him at times – and God knows he has every reason to – but give him time and he unfailingly returns to being there for Sherlock, all past sins absolved. 

He fumbles the ring out of the box and slides it on the third finger of his left hand. It’s big on him – his grandfather’s fingers were not as long and thin as his – but it fits well enough for his purpose. He goes down to his knees in front of John. “I know I said that that was my first and last vow, but I was wrong because I messed it up, and I want to do it again, I want to do it right.” He takes John’s hands in his and takes a deep breath. “John Watson, whatever it takes, whatever happens, from now on I swear I will always be there for you, you and Rosie. And wearing this ring is going to help me remem—”

“Hang on a moment,” John says.

Sherlock blinks at him. He’s not given to sentimental displays, but he doesn’t appreciate being interrupted when he’s in the middle of one. 

“What if something terrible happens, like a bomb goes off in the flat or something?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, will you still be there for us if something like that happens?”

“Of course.” Sherlock frowns at him. “I said always, I meant always.”

“What if we don’t have any money? What if we’re flat broke? Or, wait, what if one of us wins the lottery?”

“Are you having a stroke?”

“I’m just asking.”

“Always means always, John.”

“What if one of us gets sick, or if Rosie gets sick?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes in irritation. “Yes, if anyone gets sick, I’ll still be there for you, for both of you!”

“Sherlock….” John’s eyes are suddenly dancing. “Are you asking me to marry you?”

He draws back, affronted. “Of course not! You know what I think of marriage – it’s a celebration of all that is false and specious and irrational and sentimental in the world.”

John’s lips are twitching, he’s barely suppressing a smile. “No, that’s what you think of weddings. Marriage is something different.”

“What?”

“Marriage is when two people who love each other make a vow to always be there for each other and exchange rings as a sign of that commitment.” 

Sherlock opens his mouth to make a retort, and then John’s words percolate through to his brain. Oh. He sits back on his heels. “You think this is a stupid idea, don’t you?”

“Christ, Sherlock.” John cups his hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck and pulls him forward until their foreheads are touching. “Stupid – no,” he says softly. “Fantastic, brilliant, amazing, yes. Ridiculous – in the good way, yes. Mad – in the good way, too, and perfect – yes. Just like you.” He tilts his head and kisses Sherlock, gently, reverently. 

When they separate, Sherlock’s insides are quivering, and John’s eyes are suspiciously bright. John clears his throat. “I have an idea,” he says. “Wait here.”

He listens to John go upstairs. He looks over at Rosie, who is lying on her back in the playpen attempting to insert her foot in her mouth. He doesn’t even have the presence of mind to tell her how many germs there are on her sock-clad toes.

John comes back downstairs and sits on the floor in front of his chair. There’s something clutched in his right hand. “Okay, now where were we?”

Sherlock reaches out and takes John’s left hand. “John Watson, I promise to always be there for you and Rosie, for better or for worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and in health.”

John looks at him quizzically. “Not going to say the last part?”

He clears his throat. “No, because not even death can part us. It hasn’t so far.” 

John sucks a breath in. “Christ, Sherlock,” he murmurs. “Let’s not tempt fate, huh?” He holds his hand out. “Okay, now put the ring on my finger”.

“It’s meant to help _me_ remember—”

“Just trust me, okay?”

His hands are shaking, but he takes the ring and slides it on to John’s finger. It fits him better than it does Sherlock. A small, petty part of him is pleased to note that the larger ring completely covers the lighter area of skin where John’s other wedding ring sat. 

John blows out a large breath, blinking furiously. “Sherlock Holmes,” he says, and his voice is slightly rough, “I promise to always be there for you, for better or for worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and in health.” He lifts his right hand and a length of chain tumbles down from his fingers, two small round discs at the end of it.

His identity discs. 

Sherlock inhales as John slips the discs around his neck and under the collar of his shirt. The chain is cool against his skin. It shifts slightly when he does and he can feel the discs, rims encased in silencing rubber, bumping against the base of his breastbone. He shivers.

John is looking at him with a rueful smile, head tilted. “Not exactly a fair trade, I know. Unfortunately I don’t have any family heirloom jewelry sitting around—”

“It’s _perfect_ ,” Sherlock says roughly and grabs the front of John’s shirt in his fist, pulling him in for a deep, intense kiss. 

It’s not that he doesn’t love what they get up to in bed – he does, absolutely and completely. But there are times that he is perfectly content to be kissing John Watson, cuddling in front of the fire, and this is one of them. He can let go and just enjoy the uncomplicated feel of John’s mouth against his, John’s skin warm and smooth under his fingertips, the rough nap of his shirt as Sherlock pushes it aside, the soft breathy sounds John makes as they kiss. Sex, as wonderful as it is, can get a little overwhelming for him at times, all the textures and sensations, and sometimes it’s nice to just cuddle in front of the fire and kiss.

He’s not sure how much time has passed when he hears a soft “Oh, dear,” from John, and raises his head to see Rosie fast asleep in her playpen. 

“Bit past her bedtime,” John says, eyes dancing. “I’d better put her down.”

He lets John up with a sigh, and then remembers something. “Oh, fuck.”

John turns to look at him, Rosie cradled on his shoulder, his eyebrow raised at the atypical use of profanity. “Sherlock?”

“Trifle. We’ve got trifle.”

He sees John’s eyes dilate in a way that he rarely sees outside their bedroom. “You made trifle?”

He struggles for a moment with his conscience, wanting so badly to be worthy of the admiration in John’s eyes, but then gives in and tells the truth. “No, I talked Mrs. Hudson into making it for me. She’ll ask you about it tomorrow for sure, and she’ll kill me if we don’t actually eat any.”

John hides a smile. “I’ll tell you what – I’ll go put Rosie to bed, you dish up the trifle, and I’ll be back in a minute.”

He does as John asks, scooping layers of sponge cake and jam and cream into two bowls and bringing them into the sitting room. John is back within moments – Rosie probably didn’t even wake up – and is tucking in to one of the bowls, his face a study in ecstatic expression. 

It’s not his favorite dessert – the Drambuie that Mrs. Hudson had used for the sponge soak in a nod to John’s Scots heritage is a little too strong for him – but he very much enjoys watching John enjoy it. 

And when John scoops up a fingerful of cream and smears it over Sherlock’s mouth, then licks it off, Sherlock can’t think of anything else but all the places he could possibly put trifle on his body that John could lick. 

Which proves to be a very fruitful line of research, indeed.

***

Sherlock stretches, arms over his head, wiggling his toes. It’s still dark outside, as it is this time of year, but he can hear the sounds of London coming to life with the new day. He turns his head to look at John, sleeping next to him in their bed.

John is on his back, left hand on his belly, the right crooked under his head. Last night, after they’d finished, John had curled up next to him, arm across his chest, but Sherlock knows that he can’t fall asleep like that, no matter how tired he is. Old habits die hard, John tells him, and he just can’t train himself out of the military habit of sleeping on his back.

Sherlock rolls to his side, and as he does, the chain of John’s identity tags shifts, cool and light against his skin, making him shiver. Reminding him of last night, and of the things they said to each other. Reminding him of his vow, and John’s. 

He reaches out and touches the ring on John’s finger gently. His conductor of light. How he takes Sherlock’s ideas and amplifies them, makes them better, he will never understand. But he’ll always be grateful. 

John sighs and shifts slightly, blinking awake. He turns and look at Sherlock, smile curving his mouth, his dark blue eyes soft in the rosy light of dawn. “How’s that working for you?” he asks, sliding a finger under the chain around Sherlock’s neck. 

“Perfect. How is that working for you?” he asks, tapping the ring lightly.

John looks at it, smiles, and looks back at Sherlock. “Perfect.” He raises his hand and brushes the backs of his fingers against Sherlock’s cheek. “I don’t have to go in to work today, you know.” 

Sherlock brightens. “Does this mean we can go on a sex holiday?”

“We just went on a sex holiday,” John says, laughing. “To Greece.”

“But we weren’t married then,” Sherlock points out.

John’s smile is fond. “Seems we’re always doing things in the wrong order,” he says, shifting over to his side and sliding his fingers under the waistband of Sherlock’s pyjama pants. “I do have to work tomorrow, so you’ll have to be satisfied with a one-day sex holiday in London.”

“Oh, well, if I must,” Sherlock says, putting on his best long-suffering facial expression and rolling his eyes theatrically. “Fortunately there’s plenty of trifle left.”


End file.
